


The Milk Drinker Arrives

by NorroenDyrd



Series: Glorious Milk Drinker [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Dragonborn (Elder Scrolls), F/M, Falling In Love, Heroine's Journey, Love at First Sight, Self Confidence Issues, Start of the main quest, Unlikely heroine, mead hall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2015-12-14
Packaged: 2018-05-06 16:58:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5424773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorroenDyrd/pseuds/NorroenDyrd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Grey Beards have summoned the Dragonborn. But it seems that their choice has fallen on the most timid, self-doubting little Nord imaginable. Could they have been wrong?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Milk Drinker Arrives

It had taken all her remaining mental strength to suffer through the long talk with the Jarl and his steward - but as soon as it was over, as soon as she raced out, brushing past some bewildered-looking dark-haired woman in steel armour, as soon as the tall, heavy doors of Dragonsreach swung shut behind her, the invisible core within her snapped in two. Her knees gave way, and she sank down onto the wooden bridge and buried her face in her hands.  
  
  
  
This was too much, much too much to take in. First, the dragon - a second dragon in less than a week! - sweeping over the half-ruined guard tower on its jagged webbed wings, like some dark, menacing shadow out of a nightmare - only so painfully, agonizingly real... Fire gushing out of its mouth, tearing gaping black-and-crimson wounds in the dry grass below...   
  
And her own small, petrified self crouching in terror on the tower's crumbling staircase, her heart thrashing wildly against her ribs every time yet another guard fell face-down, scorched by the dragon-fire or knocked off his feet by the whip-like lash of the beast's tail whenever it landed...  
  
Then, Irileth running up towards her, out of breath, her hair loose, pouring down her shoulders like a stream of blood, her eyes widened... The firm grip of the grey, vice-like hand on her shoulder... The curt order to _'stop staring and do something'_ , waking her up from her horror-struck daze like a slap in the face...   
  
The unyielding string of the bow Irileth had tossed at her feet, cutting deep into the numb flesh of her fumbling fingers... The arrow tip dancing wildly in the air in front of her, her hands trembling, her tear-filled eyes unable to focus on the winged horror that was ravaging through the smouldering ruins. _'How many times in your life have you used a bow, girl?' 'T-t-twice...'_  
  
And then, suddenly, unexpectedly, inexplicably - as if she was still trapped inside a dream - the soft whoosh of the arrow hitting the target. The great dark mound of scales tumbling down. The hard, gnarled skin melting away from the dragon's bones. A tall pillar of flames rushing up to the sky from the exposed carcass. Irileth sheathing her blade and folding her arms on her chest in satisfaction. _'We did it, men. We killed ourselves a dragon'._  The guards cheering, their voices sounding muffled, far-off, as if she was hearing them from under water - still too shaken to properly perceive what was going on around her.  
  
And finally, the most baffling, the most unbelievable thing of all. Web-like rays of blinding light, shooting out of the dark, hollow space that had been the dragon's chest but moments before. Hissing, weaving, flowing, searching, reaching out to her, probing her, gripping at her heart. Piercing through her, moulding into her, becoming one with her. And after the rays had poured into her blood and dissolved in it, making her sway and gasp for breath - a low, steady rumble pulsing through the ground beneath her feet, and a thundering call rolling across the sky. _Do. Vah. Kiin._  
  
  
Sveta let out a faint, shuddering sigh. Yes, this was definitely too much for one day. Too much for a whole lifetime. They told her that those weaving rays of light were the dragon's soul. They told her that the rumbling thunder was a distant echo of the fabled Greybeards' voices. They told her that the great masters of the Thu'Um were seeking her out, that she was... _Dragonborn,_ the ultimate Nord hero, a living legend... But it was not possible.  
  
She remembered the tales of the warriors of old and their mighty Voices; her father had told them to her more than once, long ago, when he was still living in their family home in Bruma... before her parents decided that they were just too different to live under the same roof and went their separate ways... back when the two were still struggling for their daughter's mind, trying to stuff it to bursting point with 'fine Cyrodiilic customs' and 'true Skyrim heritage'.  
  
The Dragonborns of legend were heroes, men and women of extraordinary strength and willpower, with hearts armoured in honour and unwavering courage. There was no way someone like her could be Dragonborn. She didn't have the soul of a dragon; she had the soul of a rabbit. A timid, covering, quivering rabbit that presses back its ears and darts off to the safety of its burrow at the slightest noise. She knew herself far better than the Greybeards; they were obviously wrong. If she had been more bold, she would have laughed in Jarl Balgruuf's face when he advised her to go on a pilgrimage up High Hrothgar. It was just _so ridiculous!_ Sveta the milk-drinker (her father's favourite choice of words), Sveta the blundering dimwit (and that expression was her mother's), Sveta the wallflower, Sveta the doormat - _meeting the Greybeards?_ Whatever for? So that they could laugh at her and turn away in disappointment and disgust and pray to the gods to forgive them for their embarrassing mistake? She'd save them the trouble. She'd never, as long as she lived, set her foot on the seven thousand steps.  
  
...But if she was not going to visit the Greybeards, whatever was she to do with herself? She was all alone, in this wild, unfamiliar province, which was being torn apart by a civil war and ransacked by dragons all at the same time.  
  
She had no friends. Ralof's family had been kind to her, but she could not go back to them; by now, he would have told them how he had carried her, mortally terrified and slobbering on his shoulder, out of Helgen... She'd be unable to face them after that; especially that boy, Frodnar. He was a prankster, and pranksters were an adversary far beyond her strength.  
  
She had no money. The Riverwood trader had rewarded her for retrieving his Golden Claw - most unfairly, she thought, since it was Faendal, the elf from the mill, who'd done most of the work, in an effort to impress the trader's sister. All she had been good for was clap her hands against her mouth every time yet another bundle of frail yellow bandages and twisting mummified sinews stirred in its coffin and then fell back again, pierced by Faendal's arrow. She would have given the money to him, since he more than deserved it... had she been able to find the right words to approach him with... But fair or otherwise, she had lost Lucan Valerius' reward shortly after receiving it. Just as she was leaving Riverwood, on her way to warn the Jarl of Whiterun about the dragon attacks, she had found her path blocked by a cutthroat in mismatched armour, demanding that she hand over any valuables she had. She'd given him her whole coinpurse. Without a word. Without the slightest attempt to fight him off. All because of the stupid, stupid fit of nausea at his threat to 'gut her like a fish'!.. And also because he was a Dunmer; there was something about male Dunmeri voices that absolutely, utterly petrified her, that made a stifling red wave rise up her throat, bringing hot, helpless tears to her eyes, as all inside her went numb, and her mind was wiped blank, and nothing remained in the world save for the soft, raspy drawl in her ears...  
  
She had no purpose. Her mother had sent her to Skyrim after that fiasco of a reception when Sveta had to greet the distinguished company - posh, refined Imperials, and well-to-do Nords that supported the Empire like the lady of the house, and even a few elves with connections among the Thalmor... and got so nervous that she vomited right onto the front of a silver-haired, pointy-chinned Altmer's richly embroidered Sundas robes, just as he was in the middle of telling the other guests about his new post as the advisor to the Arch-Mage of Winterhold. The irrevocably ruined soiree had been 'thrown together', as her mother coquettishly referred to days and days of gruelling preparation, to find Sveta a suitor; thus the formidable lady's rage, as the plans she had for her daughter came crashing down, was akin to the eruption of the Red Mountain. Sveta had spent days camping out in the mountains, cleansing her soul with prayers to Kynareth and hiding from her mother's wrath - until she was found, and dragged back to the house, and wrapped into a suffocating bundle of furs, and pushed into a carriage bound for Skyrim.  
  
'I have done all I could to turn you into something at least remotely resembling a lady,' her mother had told her, watching the Dunmeri servants pile Sveta's things at the back of the carriage, muttering something under their breath - those voices, ah, those voices! - her lips forming a hard, straight line without the hint of a smile, her grey eyes crisply cold like the first autumnal crust of ice. 'I have failed. Perhaps it is because I, being far more sophisticated than you'll ever be, have no means of reaching out to your simple mind. I am sending you to the Bards' College in Solitude; the masters there are used to dealing with our savage, Skyrim-born kinsmen - mindless, boorish like your father. If they can't make anything out of you, no-one ever will... Oh, and one more thing...'  
  
Sveta remembered looking up from her raw, chewed-off fingernails and peering into her mother's face, longing to find some hint of feeling, _any_ feeling, at sending her only child away.  
  
 _'If you should run into Maven Black-Briar, pray do not tell her that you are my daughter. We were quite close in our youth, and I don't want you to embarrass me'._  
  
  
That was what she was supposed to be doing in Skyrim. Studying manners and eloquence at the Bards' College, trying, for a thousandth time, to conquer the habit of tripping over her feet, learning to speak with strangers without blushing and stammering, getting over the fear of crowds, of being judged, of being laughed at... Sveta bit into her lips. She'd never be able to go to the College... She'd never be able to as much as think about considering going to the College. All the way to Skyrim, she had been frantically thinking of ways to weasel out of her mother's quest, and now, what with the chaos of the dragon attacks, the opportunity to do so seemed to have been handed to her by the gods on a golden platter. But if not High Hrothgar and not Solitude, what then? What other path could she follow? She couldn't sit on Dragonsreach's steps forever...  
  
  
  
'Do you go to the Cloud District very often? Oh, what am I saying! Of course you don't!'  
  
'Well, I am going there now, sonny, and I'd be much obliged if you helped me up the stairs!'  
  
Sveta started and whirled to her feet, swiveling her head to see who had just spoken. They were standing quite close to where she had plopped down to dwell on her fate - a bald, neatly dressed, well-fed Redguard man with his face appearing to be perpetually frozen in a snooty sneer, and an elderly Nord woman, wrinkled and rosy like a baked apple, wearing a cap and a rather grimy apron, which suggested that she probably was some kind of servant. Apparently, the Redguard did not appreciate being scolded like that; for he made no reply and, shoving the woman in the chest with his elbow, walked off towards the palace, scoffing. The poor old thing lost her balance and was in for quite a nasty tumble down the stairs and into the water below - but before she knew it, she suddenly found herself held back by a pair of very skinny, very frail, very trembling, but still supportive arms. Sveta had dashed to her aid the moment she set eyes on the cocky Redguard, for some reason momentarily forgetting that cocky people also were on her fear list, and was now gently helping the woman up the stairs, her face the colour of a boiled beetroot.  
  
The elderly Nord smiled, her pale, bluish eyes completely disappearing in a sea of wrinkles, big and small, shallow and deep, like the folds of crumpled parchment.  
  
'Why thank you, dearie!' she said genially. 'Oh my, I don't believe I have seen you around before... Are you new to Whiterun?'  
  
Sveta nodded silently, her throat gripped by her usual terror of speaking to strangers - even kindly, apple-cheeked ones.  
  
The woman went on, in an absent-minded manner that the elderly often have, not really caring if Sveta was listening to her.  
  
'My name is Tilma, Tilma the Haggard they call me... Because I am old and always at work; I'm a-heading to the palace to see if one of the serving girls there could come and help me out sometimes.. I've been tending to the warriors of Jorvaskr as long as I can remember, and the place just seems to get bigger and dirtier as years go by...'  
  
Sveta let out an incoherent, choked cry of amazement. Jorvaskr was part of another legend told to her by her father. Home of the Companions. The greatest fighters on the face of Tamriel. The heirs of Ysgramor's undying glory. The keepers of the mighty Wuuthrad's shards. The valiant protectors of Skyrim. _'True warriors, in whose shadow sorry little milk-drinkers like you or your Imperial-obsessed mother can only dream of crawling...'_  
  
Her voice, which had been trapped somewhere between her collar bones, now burst through, in one enormous hoarse lump,  
  
'I-can-do-it-I-can-be-your-helper-I-can-wash-the-sheets-and-fetch-the-mead-and-sweep-and-dust-and-everything-the-Companions-are-my-my-heroes-I'd-do-anything-to-see-them-up-close-please-please-please-I'm-good-at-housekeeping!'  
  
It was true. Sveta had always done as many chores as she could, despite her mother's violent protests, never feeling comfortable about letting others sort out the mess she had made, as if it was none of her business. And she hero-worshipped the Companions, even though she had not seen a single one of them in her life. For such was the lesson taught to her by her father. For such was the lot of the milk-drinkers. To stand in awe of those, be it Dragonborns or Companions, who embodied every quality they themselves did not have.  
  
Tilma cocked her head, bird-like, to one side, regarding Sveta with mild curiosity.  
  
'By the gods,' she chuckled softly. 'I've never seen anyone so eager to fetch the mead!.. Though of course, these _are_ the Companions we are talking about. Come now, I will show you around, and you can start tomorrow... Only you will have to help me _down_ the stairs first!'  
  
  
Many weeks later, Sveta would still be unable to figure out how she had managed not to faint when she and Tilma came within the first sight of the great meadhall. The giant overturned boat serving as the building's roof... The battle-scarred shields adorning its sides... The great stone eagle, forever frozen in flight a little way off, among the swirling rings of smoke gushing from the blood-red embers of the fabled Skyforge... Everything was just as her father had told her - only better. Because it was real. Because she could stoop down and scoop up a handful of earth, the very earth the Companions had been treading since the times of Ysgramor, and feel it beneath her fingers, and crush and roll it around, her heart singing for joy... Only she didn't do it; if she did, Tilma would surely have laughed at her, and she could not afford to mar her elated spirits with the pain of being laughed at.  
  
Her excitement reached its utmost when they went inside - and when, by the pulsing light of raging fires, she saw _them_. Sitting back at the wooden tables, stretching themselves languidly, helping themselves to crimson, glistening beef ribs and to mead... the very mead she'd soon be fetching for them. She counted four warriors, three men, two of whom appeared to be twins, so breathtakingly strong and rugged, and a woman with flaming red hair and broad shoulders; she said with her back to her, but Sveta could picture her face, beautiful and fierce, with eyes glinting like the steel of a blade... The face that every true Nord woman should have. The face that she searched for in vain every morning in the mirror, unable to find its traces in her own round, colourless cheeks and large, frightened eyes...  
  
They must have heard her and Tilma come in, but none of them turned to greet them. And why should they have? They were too busy doing their important Companion-ey things, like eating and drinking, and watching a brawl.  
  
Watching a brawl... It was only now that Sveta registered the presence of two more Companions, circling around in a far-off corner and showering each other with blows... and grabbed on tight to Tilma's sleeve, because the room came dangerously close to spinning away from her.  
  
One of the brawlers was a Dunmer. Lean and sinewy, with a small beard and copper hair tied back in a tight knot. From where she stood, she was just able to make out his face, angular, high-cheekboned, its sharp outlines highlighted by white warpaint... She drank this face in in hurried gulps, her heart leaping each time she committed yet another feature to memory. And then, she heard his voice, crying out something to egg on his adversary, a scarred Nord woman with an angry expression and an ample bosom. She felt her ears flare up and wet patches of sweat appear round her armpits and along her spine as the low rasp echoed through her entire body. Her fingers, still clasped round Tilma's sleeve, dug into the old woman's flesh; Tilma cried out and looked up at Sveta in surprise.  
  
'Smitten with our Athis, are you?' she asked, trying to brush off Sveta's hand. 'Don't let him catch you staring at him like that; he has quite a temper!'  
  
  
  
  
He would have won. He was _this close_ to winning. He could see his triumph reflected in Njada's eyes, which were beginning to wander, to lose focus, failing to register his moves, allowing him to break through her blocks. He could hear it in her uneven, wheezing breath. He could smell it in her sweat, in the blood that was streaming down her face where he had split her lip. She was finally getting weary... All he had to do was catch her completely unawares; then, twist her arms behind her back, toss her down on the floor, and look around him, savouring the sight of the long faces of all the Nord n'wahs that had dared to tease him about not being strong enough to beat that accursed woman in a fist fight.  
  
He would have won. He _should_ have won. By the Reclamations, why did he have to turn away when he heard his name mentioned? Why did he have to cast a glance at that little toothpick of a girl that was hovering behind old Tilma's back? Such a stupid, stupid, _stupid_ thing to do! A shameful, unforgivable mistake! A fraction of a second wasted on gaping at that tearful expression, at that heart-shaped face, wondering at how pallid it was; he had spent enough time in Skyrim to get used to the unnatural pinkish-white faces most Nords had - but this girl took the sweetroll: her skin was almost literally the colour of freshly fallen snow, save for two patches of fierce scarlet on the tips of her ears... A fraction of a second irretrievably lost taking in the clear, half-transparent grey of her eyes, and the flaxen wisps of hair over her forehead...  A fraction of a second - and the sole of Njada's boot was in his stomach. A fraction of a second - and he lost balance, choking with pain, blinded, disoriented. A fraction of a second - and he was on his knees, head bowed down in shame, blood pounding in his ears in chorus with the Nords' cheers to Njada.  
  
When he looked up, the white-faced girl was standing right in front of him. Her hand reaching out towards him. Her mouth half-open in an expression of alarm and pity, her eyebrows raised pleadingly, her widened eyes imploring him silently to accept her help... _How dared she!_ How dared that pathetic s'wit patronize him, after she had just cost him his honour! Rage beginning to seethe within him, he took a deep, shaky breath and spat right in the middle of the outstretched palm.   
  
  
  
'Now, now, dearie, not everyone is like me; not everyone takes kindly to being helped to their feet,' he could hear Tilma's voice, but deliberately avoided looking either at her, or at the girl - the little wretch had started blubbering out loud. 'Let me show you where you are going to sleep, hmmm?'  
  
Athis heard footsteps shuffling off; Tilma must have shepherded the girl away - perhaps wiping the spit off her hand as they went down to the living quarters... And sure enough - when he finally brought himself to straighten up and look around, they were gone. Out of sight; out of earshot. Yes, out of earshot... He couldn't still be hearing the girl's sobs! That persistent sound in his ears must have just been from Njada hitting him too hard.


End file.
